Picture Perfect
by Elaine Kaelar
Summary: A teacher is blackmailed into leaving her students. Will she be able to turn the situation around to her advantage? Rated for language and marching band.
1. Chapter 1

_A/n- So this is the culmination of not enough work and too much practicing over the summer waiting for the new semester. I own all characters, and events. I do not own the alluded to company. _

* * *

The very young junior executive peered through the blinds before he entered the conference room, as if the young woman within it were likely to snap and become wildly dangerous at any time. She was faced away from him, staring out the window into the smoggy murk that covered much of the city.

"Are you finally going to tell me why you interrupted my rehearsal, Stephens?" she asked without turning around when he stepped through the door. "I would much rather be cajoling a bunch of kids with dangerous objects around than be here in this dump you call a city. Please just tell me what a horrible person I am and that the company is rethinking my unnecessary place in it. This isn't any more pleasant for you than it is for me, Stephens. Say what you have to, so we may both get back to our lives."

Stephens nodded nervously before realizing that she was still facing away from him. Clearing his throat, "Please, Miss," he tried to begin. "It's not that you are unnecessary at all. Quite the contrary, actually…" he trailed off as she spun around with an icily bemused expression.

"You can't possibly tell me that they intend to keep me further in their pitiful grasp? They got their use out of me long ago, and I've paid my reconcilement."

Stephens dabbed edgily at his face with a hankie, damning both the broken air conditioning and the mid-senior executive for pushing this, this _female_ onto his plate, as if it wasn't full enough already. Why did she have to be so… dominant? Too many years hanging around with the wrong crowd; overly competitive, single-minded people that they were. No proper company for a young lady of her talents, not at all.

"Actually," he tried pleasantly, "actually, corporate wants to give you the opportunity to, er, cancel out the rest of your contract with us. You see," he went on hurriedly as she went very still and red blotches started to come out on her face, "we seem to be on a downward slump right now. Broadcastings are getting lower and lower ratings, features are being marked as repetitive, and merchandise can't be sold, even at the slashed pricings stores are forced to carry." He paused for a moment to make sure his person was not in immediate danger before continuing. "Upper Management seems to think that something has been lost in recent years…" again he trailed off. She laughed hollowly.

"Something lost?" she repeated mockingly. "They want to know what it is they have lost? Only the sincerity the company was founded on, the truth that has been so obliterated by the enslavement of pop-culture that Upper Management couldn't produce a decent storyline even if it crept up behind them and bit them—"

"Yes, yes," Stephens broke in. "That is exactly what they are saying. No proper storyline, connections to audiences alienated, all things that need to be fixed! Which is where your, um, particular area of expertise comes in." She eyed him narrowly.

"What does getting rid of their saccharine coating have to do with me being a—"

"Upper Management feels that your specific skills and experiences could be used to reconnect with target audiences and attract new viewers with a fresh outtake on life, one that won't seem so far away and, um," he hesitated.

"Fake?" she supplied pointedly. He nodded. She sighed. "What exactly is it they want me to do?" she asked. Stephens was very glad for the momentary submission.

"They want you to write a screenplay. A movie, something our audiences can relate to. As you so shrewdly pointed out, the, erm, preppy-perfect take only got so far before they all realized that life doesn't happen in quite that way. We need you to give us something _real._" She stared at him in disbelief.

"Stephens, they want me to write a _movie_? Where, when, do they think that I'm going to be able to this? Season is coming up faster than you can say paradiddle, and you want me to sit around on my rear end and write a _story_?" He tried to say something, but she went on, "I won't do it! Even if I did feel like writing a story around life, I would have to base it on my life, and then I would have to forfeit it to their greedy clutches. Can you imagine what all they would think they'd have to change to make it 'viewer friendly?' They would suck the soul out of it as soon as look at it, before they even read the casting list." She paused, breathing heavier than before. Stephens ran with it.

"Well, first off, you won't have to worry about your upcoming, uh, Season." The term "glaring daggers" didn't quite cover it.

"What do you mean, I won't have to worry?"

"Upper Management has come up with a viable compromise; you take a year's leave of absence to work here, and the company will forgive all of your debt. As to your rights to the story, you'll have more input than Rowling had. You should feel honored, it's very gracious of them to come up with such a win-win…" for the third time that conversation, Stephens left his sentence unfinished as he quailed slightly under her murderous glare.

"YOU ARE ASKING ME TO ABANDON MY CHILDREN FOR A WHOLE YEAR TO SOME NUMBSKULL TO MESS THEM UP WHILE I PUTTER AROUND THIS DUMP WRITING _STORIES_?"

He winced. He had forgotten how bloody loud she was. "Yes," he said, looking at her sadly. "I'm afraid I am. And it gets worse." He gulped, and blotted again. "You really don't have any choice in the matter, otherwise they have threatened to take it _legally._" She sank into the chair she had previously ignored. "Lynn. _Lynn._ That is the best offer I could get you." He looked at her, worried.

"How long do I have? To find someone to take over for me at the school?" She stared again out the window at the smog.

He came around the table to sit by her. "You have to be completely moved in here in three weeks. I've already sent some emails to some people; Brody, Evans, Tyson. I'm sure one of them will be willing to help you out." She laughed bitterly.

"I didn't know you even kept contacts for any of the old guys… you were so eager to get out of it, almost as eager as I was to leave here. Except…"

"Except I didn't evade contract policy." He looked down at the remains of calluses on his hands. "Lynn, I'm sorry it has to be this way." She nodded.

"Me too." A single tear trekked down her cheek. "Tom, thanks for getting me this much."

* * *

_A/N- I know that the beginning does not strictly envolve marching band. It is coming, I promise. This story has the scary possiblity of turning into a novel. o.O And most of it is still in my HEAD. O.O_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/n- This is somewhat shorter, I know, but summer is turning out to be crazier than I thought. BTW, any of you who were not in Stanford on the 5th missed out big time. That was one of the best DCI shows I've seen in a long time. :D So basically, I was oggling Phantom Regiment when I should have been writing. ;)_

_I own characters and events. _

* * *

She retched as she gulped some Quik-Bru coffee back in her suite. _City water_. She cringed. She didn't know how these people lived with it. However, she was in desperate need of the caffeine. Her body was going to kill her before this was through; she didn't have a very good tolerance for caffeine. She sat down once again in front of her laptop, trying to make sense of the emails she had gotten from old friends willing to take over for her year. She wondered how the Upper Management had gotten past the principals and admin that made teaching so incredibly ridiculous nowadays.

Her eyes refused to focus on the print, and her mind kept returning to her fate of the next year. Not necessarily for herself, but for her kids. They would always be hers, no matter if someone stepped in as a long term substitute. But what if this was the year that they won something? Would they still practice with a strange teacher, however good they may be? What about her graduates? Would they miss her at graduation? Of course they would. Her hands clenched into fists as her thoughts turned to Stephens. How dare he? How dare he think that she would be ok with his deal? That slimy, presumptuous… oh, she wished she could make him run laps. Again. Her fists uncurled. You really aren't being fair, he did try his best for you, a part of her said. You could be in a much worse situation. Damn. It was so much easier to be angry and want to _do_ something than feel helpless and despairing.

A cold breeze erupted from the monster air conditioning unit by the bed. She shivered. The people here insisted on keeping frigid temperatures below 70 degrees. She got up from her laptop and went over to rummage through her duffle bag. Even in the dark of the room, she found what she was looking for by feel alone; a ragged jacket, embroidery raveling at the edges, with some of the patches curling up and threatening to fall off altogether. She hugged it to her for a second, breathing in slowly, before putting it on and reaching down again. This object looked equally worn; a sweatshirt blanket that was more air than material. The white logo in the middle had all but vanished, leaving traces of letters behind in bold block print on the dark blue cloth.

**SN S AT **was all that was left. She traced the letters gently with a finger before flinging the blanket around her shoulders.

She looked at her laptop clock. 4:26. She suddenly felt the exhaustion that she had hoped the caffeine would keep at bay. Taking one last view of the sprawling cityscape below her, she closed the blinds to the enormous picture window and crawled into bed. Particles of thought chased themselves around her head as she pulled the blanket tighter around her. _I'm all alone in this hotel room…if you love the mountains and blue skies above you… they want a story do they? Alright, we'll get them a story that will set their _hair_ on end…_ She sighed before falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

_A/n- It's going slowly, I know. Part of it is because I have all these scenes in my head, and very little connecting bits to piece them all together into a story. Extra cookie for the person who can name the 3 random quotes... :D_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/n- There is a good chance there will eventually have other scenes in between this and the last chapter, but right now they aren't coming out right. I don't think there's anything too important in them, just drabble-ish character development as of right now. _

_I own characters/events. I do not own Drumline, American Pie, or the alluded to company. _

* * *

The door opened to the conference room again. Stephens was having a serious case of déjà vu. She was once again staring out the window to the city below her, either unaware or ignoring the fact that he came in. He was fairly sure it was the latter. He had never known Lynn to miss much of anything. He was interrupted from his musings by someone impatiently clearing their throat behind him. She turned around, and the look of contempt on her face narrowed further as she saw the cavalry he had brought with him. He made a silent face of apology as the sour-looking senior executive was still behind him.

As the two men walked into the room, Stephens smiled a little as he noticed she was wearing brown flip flops under her tan dress suit. She never had liked to wear shoes, kicking them off whenever she could get away with it. His smile faded as the man next to him cleared his throat again, clearly a signal for Lynn to join them at the table and get what they were to discuss over as soon as possible. For a moment he thought she was about to go off again, but she seemed to think better of it and came to sit down. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. _Confrontation One, avoided. Only nineteen gadjillion to go. _

As she came to sit down at the conference table, Stephens began.

"This is Stanley, my direct superior. He wanted to come in and talk to you and make sure we are all on the same page regarding some of the, um, elements of your story, as well as work out some of the details."

Stanley cleared his throat yet again. She raised an eyebrow. She could get to dislike this man very easily. He looked like all the rest of them; stiff and upright, worried about keeping everything to the lowest common denominator of understanding and complexity. He would come down on any kind of plot, or for that matter, anything resembling real life, like an axe blow. She looked at Stephens; he was looking pleadingly at her to listen to this man, give him a chance and to be good. She would be good, she thought, her lips pursed. Being good had nothing to do with being pleasant, however, she noted as Stanley brought out a folder with odds and ends of crumpled paper sticking out of the sides. Most of them looked like clippings from magazines.

"So," Stanley finally began to speak as he opened the folder. He had a wheezy, nasally voice that couldn't be heard if it was anywhere but a conference room. He was in his element. "I assume Mr. Stephens has told you the current situation?" She grimaced.

"Only a little, that I am supposed to save the company as the world knows it by providing you with the next Big Thing. I still don't understand what that has to do with me, or how I'm supposed to come up with a catchy storyline that will get your ratings back up." She leaned back in her chair.

Stanley said, "We have already showcased athletics, including football, basketball, volleyball, and cheerleading." Lynn grimaced at the thought of cheerleading being categorized as a sport. "We have also featured academics," Stanley continued. "matheletes, acadeca, and others. And as you remember, our singers were popular for a while, but they did not withstand the test of time. So, we have decided to try something new, a different group of young people in high school."

"And that would be?" Lynn was getting annoyed. This man was all bluster and no substance. He would beat around the bush all day if she gave him half a chance.

"Uh, we want you to create a story about, um, student musicians who—"

"You want me to compose a story about band geeks?! Do you know what you're asking?"

"I assure you, Miss Howards," he responded stiffly, "that I am quite aware of what I am asking. This is the reason you were recommended for the task, given your career and history. We want a story about marching band. I even took the liberty of doing a little research on the subject." He shoved the disorganized folder at her.

She opened it to find magazine clippings, mostly old ones from the release of the movie Drumline. A few were from other clips of lesser-known movies with brief cameos of marching bands. Shoved furtively in the back of the folder, there were even some cut-out from American Pie's Band Camp. She was slightly shocked at this. She didn't even know a man like Stanley would know what American Pie was, let alone that it had anything to do with marching band. She looked up from the messy contents of the folder.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?" she asked him.

"Take ideas from it, learn from what others have done. Most of these features were very successful, so I want you to take note of—

"These have nothing to do with marching band," she cut him off coldly. "or any type of band. If this is the stuff you wanted, you have the wrong person. Contract or no, I will not spend my time writing stories that degrade a group of students for what they do, especially when I was once one of them!" Her voice had risen considerably at the end, until she was in effect shouting at the ignorant man. Stephens rubbed his temples. He had told Stanley not to bring that folder, but no…

Stanley had puffed up like an affronted bird. "I am merely showing you what has successfully sold. That is the whole point, you know."

"No, it's not. If I am going to be writing for you and your company, Mr. Stanley, then it is going to be on my terms, with my characters, portraying high school band students. It will be focused around hard work, musicality, and the internal drive to succeed. It will be about skills, chops, teamwork; it will be about hot days running laps and doing push-ups, and freezing nights riding buses."

"How is a story going to come out of all that?" Stanley asked doubtfully.

"I can't just give you a story about marching band. It is a story unto itself. So here's what I'll do. I'll give you the scenario. You can tell the plot from there."

* * *

_A/n- I promise there will be no more mention or comparison to the other movies. It was neccessary to show what it is **not **rather than what it will be. Thanks for reading! :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/n- Hey guys, this summer didn't end quite the way I wanted it to... my writing flow was interupted. Now that school is back again, I don't know how often I'll get around to updating this, since college football is dictating my life... I think I have like 5 weekends straight where at some point, I'm running around in a band uniform. o.O That, and just being a music major is crazy. :)_

_Disclaimer: I own all characters and events, but not Harry Potter. _

* * *

"This is just the back-story." She said as Stephens got out a fairly large whiteboard and some evil smelling markers. Stanley started to sputter.

"Why do we need a back story? That's just one more thing to incorporate, and I believe I told you, your budget is going to be allotted frugally at best." She glared at him. Stephens started rubbing his left temple.

"A back-story is what makes characters multi-dimensional. Not shallow, but actually human. Everything your current characters haven't been for about 10 years, or longer. That is what you want, isn't it? Characters that are human, that people can relate to and love for both their strengths and their flaws? Band is a story about life, not just 8 months. Everything is the way it is because of something that happened before, cumulating up to the current events. There is no isolation of band from life." She looked at Stanley coldly.

"Very well," He blustered. "Uh, you may carry on with the chart." He motioned to Stephens. "What is this back-story?" She glared at him one last time before staring over his shoulder into nothing, while Stephens took out the markers for the whiteboard chart.

"It starts in a mid-sized school out in the suburbs of the valley. The school is fairly new. There may've been about 10 graduating classes so far. It has been average for most things, sports, academics, what have you. Over the years, however, the principal has become more and more obsessed with sports; specifically, the classics of football and men's basketball. If it was a good year, occasionally the girl's volleyball team was given recognition. The cheerleaders didn't care what type of recognition they got from the faculty as long as they got to prance around at football games. The other programs were content to be more or less ignored as time went on…

ooooooo

...It may have been the withdrawn support from the principal; it may have been the pressures of the budget. Whatever it was, the music director strained and stressed until finally, the year the principal decided to retire, she cracked. Because she quit fighting for funding from the budget, there was no money for instructors, and the kids were left to fend for themselves. Band camp was run through the leadership team, and the show was pulled together purely from the grit of the students. The director showed up long enough to supervise trips and put her signature where it was needed. Marching season was held together with duct tape and zip-ties, with a bit of spit for good measure.

Then, that February, it happened. One Monday, the first students arrived to jazz band for zero period. It was not unusual for class to be canceled and the students left outside. One of them ran off to find a janitor to let them in out of the frosty darkness of the morning to wait until a sub came. The student came back with a janitor, who unlocked the door for them. He had always felt bad for them, poor buggers. They didn't ask for a teacher who could care less whether they were left out in the cold. The freezing musicians rushed into the warm darkness of the band room, their solace.

One of them finally had the presence of mind to turn the lights on. As the click resonated through the room, each of the students stopped what they were doing and stood dead still. The room was bare. Well, not completely, but close enough. The various posters that had haphazardly lined the walls were gone; the books that had been stacked on the shelves in the file room had all disappeared.

"Hey, come look over here!" someone exclaimed. There was a great rush as the students pushed to look through the window of the director's office. It was even barer than the room. "She left?" one of the freshman asked, trembling. He wasn't answered, as the students wheeled around to stampede back out of the warm room down to the main administrative office. By now it was light on, and the Administration Office was open. They rushed in to see the principal.

Later that day, it was announced to the band that they were looking for a long term sub, as the music director was not coming back. The next week, there was a ridiculously short looking young woman tinkering around the music building. As the students filed in to begin class, she said brightly, "Just chairs, children! You won't be needing instruments today!" They looked warily back at her, and sat down. She climbed up onto the chair on the podium, and exclaimed, "Today, we are going to sing!"...

ooooooo

..."I told you no singing!" Stanley burst in. "We've already exhausted happy little children who sing." She glared at him. Stephens covered his mouth and tried to turn his little chuckle into a cough, until she glared at him too. It was unnervingly satisfying to see this pompous fool wriggle like a worm under Lynn's icy glower.

"I told you, this was just the back-story. The kids won't be singing by the time the story actually starts. Quite the contrary, they'll be so sick of it, it'll take months before anyone gets them to consider it ever again." She looked distracted. Stanley took the opportunity to speak again.

"When is this crazy scenario supposed to actually start? We have enough here to make a whole other movie on. I don't know how you came up with that, that, tale off the top of your head. We might have to alter it slightly; I don't know how the audience will react to a bunch of traumatized band children singing. That just isn't normal, and I can't see how it could ever happen…"

Her full attention was back on Stanley. "You can't, can you?" she asked softly. "It does. Maybe not all the time, but oh, it happens." Stanley just looked back at her, confused.

"Your story is going to start the last week of the last year of the old principle. The music program has been abandoned, and then given to a failed opera singer. They obviously were in need of hiring a new music teacher, which brings us to our opening character. Erm, you can pick the name of the new music teacher," she prompted Stanley. He just looked at her. Stephens broke in.

"Ms. Johnson. Mairead Johnson." Lynn looked at him, an eyebrow raised, before turning back to Stanley.

"Your opening scene will be of Miss Johnson coming into the high school's front office, approaching the secretary, and asking for the band room. The secretary will ask her what her business there is, and she replies as necessary. Next scene, heading up the steps to the band room, Miss Johnson notices that the lights are off—"

"I think you have a very good grasp of the story you are about to tell me," Stanley interrupted. "But, as much as I would love to stay and hear it, my duties here are done for the day." Lynn checked her watch. Barely forty-five minutes have passed. "Fortunately for you, Miss Howards, you'll have Stephens here to help you. I'll expect monthly reports to mark your progress. I will tell my office assistant to send you her email should you need anything further."

"You aren't going to even look at my basic outline?" Lynn asked incredulously.

"I don't see the need." He motioned at Stephens. "You can go over the outline with him, and start the story board after that." He quickly got up and left the room. Stephens stared forlornly after him, feeling like a puppy that had just been caged with a snake. _That did not go as well as I hoped._

Lynn all but hissed after him, "Alright, you want reports? You'll get reports. You'll get reports that will stand your hair on end, you damned coward." Stephens took one look at her and was suddenly very afraid. He attempted to clear his throat to bring her back to the task at hand, instead she turned on him. "How dare you let that pig be in charge of my work? He wouldn't care if I handed him the next Harry Potter, as long as I sat quiet as a good girl and got it all done to save your filthy backs."

"Lynn, please," Stephens begged, trying to bring her temper down. "Forget about him right now. I'll shorthand everything down on the whiteboard while you dictate. Let's just get moving?"

"If you think about changing what I write at all, you had better think again—"

"I won't change anything, it will be exactly as you tell it to me. The last week in May, Ms. Johnson is walking up to the band room." Lynn sighed, and continued for him.

"She notices that the lights are off…"

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_A/n- Thanks for reviewing! Like I said, I'm not sure when I'll be back, but I'll try. :)_


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